


You and Me and the Devil Make Three

by Quilljoy



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Consent Issues, F/M, M/M, Multi, Stockholm Syndrome, Typical Bolton TWs, oh yes there will, season 5 rewrite, there will be puppies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-23 01:22:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11392401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilljoy/pseuds/Quilljoy
Summary: In which Ramsay takes Sansa's agency, but she steals his Reek.





	You and Me and the Devil Make Three

**Author's Note:**

  * For [SegaBarrett](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SegaBarrett/gifts).



> Hey, dear NPT reader! Woosh, you've gave me something nice to work with, thank you very much! I'm glad I'm not the only one engaged by the horrid, fantastical relationship that developed between Sansa, Ramsay and Theon. 
> 
> This is a season 5 rewrite, mostly because, while I loved the concept of season 5, I hated how little of Sansa's character growth it presented. OFC this is not only my attempt to fix it, but sneak some more theonsa. Erm.

 

> “The lion cannot protect himself from traps, and the fox cannot defend himself from wolves. One must therefore be a fox to recognize traps, and a lion to frighten wolves.” ― Niccolò Machiavelli, The Prince

 

The hounds were the size of Direwolves, but there the resemblance stopped.

Sansa thought of Shaggydog first, mostly because of the stank of wet fur and mud, something so distinctly canine her immediate response was to bring her gloved hand to cover her nose. The smell was pungent, however, and while their wolves had been allowed to roam free this was ingrained to the kennels, where Ramsay’s hounds laid chained. They didn’t arouse quietly, like her Lady would, one ear popping up after the other, suspicion begetting caution begetting – silence, and then observation. Their nostrils flared at the scent of unknown flesh, and once Ramsay urged her in, they sprung to their feet, thick rivulets of saliva dripping from their gaping maws.

“I’ve heard you Starks liked dogs,” Ramsay said.

Sansa dropped her hand down. She didn’t think she was supposed to speak, so she didn’t. To be true, she didn’t think herself capable of anything at the moment, staring into sharp yellowed teeth. Their mouths were stretched so wide their gums showed, discolored but for splotches of blood. Sansa had the exit behind her, and Ramsay between her and the exit. When he gave one step, she had to walk one step, and soon his hand was on her back and she was one inch closer to their snouts, sticking between the bars when they were not biting at it.

Their growling only rose in cadency.

Ramsay gave another step forward. His leg brushed against the hem of her skirt. When Sansa didn’t move, he stopped with his thigh between hers; the hand on her back crept up to her shoulder and squeezed.

“They are–” Hungry– “Beautiful.”

Ramsay rubbed her shoulder, giving her a clap to the back before barking in laughter. It startled the dogs almost as much as it startled her, and the snarling grew louder. She wasn’t eyeing him, but Sansa knew he was smiling, as wide and dangerous as his hounds.

Their litter must’ve been the same size of Lady’s, for they all looked somewhat the same, all six or seven of them – Sansa couldn’t count, not with the hounds climbing over each other, snipping at their siblings and showing teeth. They all had collars of steel and spikes, and whenever they got too close to the gates, it yanked them back. They were skin and bones and muscle, and Sansa was sure they’d tear her apart if they ever got close enough.

“I’ll make them my wedding gift to you. My wife can have any hound she pleases.”

“That’s generous of you, my lord.”

If only Lady was here to protect her. If only Grey Wind had been there to protect Robb. If only, if only… Sansa felt the tears prickling the corner of her eyes once again, and she was sick and tired of it. Winterfell had lost the warmth that made her home, and once the tears started flowing, the paths they traced against her cheeks were hot against the night chill. Ramsay pressed a thumb against her face and wiped them away. Just like their master, the dogs sensed weakness, and they all grouped in front of her, barking and biting at the air, their claws sunk into the dirt around them. They had no bone to chew on, no stick and no toy to play with, nothing to cover themselves but a bundle of clothes tossed on the side. Their fur was buzzed short and caked with things she’d rather not think about. They were hungry, and cold, and angry, and Sansa hated them.

“Great!” Ramsay kissed her on the ear. “Better you let them warm up to you first. They’re all bitches, so they get jealous of girls. Women,” he laughed, and Sansa didn’t find it amusing at all.

The wind on her back meant Ramsay had – finally – stepped away, but her body was wound too tightly for her to breathe. Like a corset, with the wires digging into her chest.

“I’ll leave you to make your choice,” Ramsay said. “There’s Sara and Kyra and Willow… You’ll need a couple of hours to think on it.”

No, she wanted to scream. Please. But she’d learnt better, now. She stood still, eyes on the dogs. The rags in the corner stirred. She wasn’t going to beg. It would do her no good. Had Robb begged?

“Thank you, my lord.”

“You are as sweet–” he took her hand, and peeled off her glove before pressing his lips against it– “As you are beautiful.”

Odd to think this would’ve mollified her, once. But after Joffrey, she knew. And Ramsay had nor the looks nor the graces, with lips perpetually set in mockery, and eyes half mad.

Sansa curtseyed, with care to bare her neck to him, and not the hounds. Shoulders stiff, she turned to them after Ramsay left, slow, waiting, until the lock clicked behind him and the hounds grew agitated with her presence alone.

The links holding the dogs to the walls were strong but rusted. And they tested it, oh, they kept testing it, not tiring themselves because they were already tired, and she was better than no food at all.

“Ramsay needs me,” she told herself, her voice flickering as the light that trickled from the barred door. “The Boltons need me. I’m safe.”

She sounded no more confident, and the hounds drowned her voice amongst their barking.

”I’m a Stark in Winterfell,” she tried, and it rang true.

The rags in the corner moved. Eyes, wide as saucers, peered from behind grime and dirt, and for the first time in what felt like ages she heard a familiar voice at home.

“Lady Sansa?” Theon Greyjoy said.

***

The cutlery had belonged to her mother’s mother and, as the eldest of the granddaughters of Minisa Tully, Sansa was heir to the entire set. The forty-three pieces were of simple silver blades and mother of pearl handles, with decorative ferrules engraved with a leaping trout, rarely used but for family gatherings and late night etiquette practice.

Watching Ramsay Bolton shove a spoonful of porridge into his mouth with it made Sansa gag.

“Is the food not up to your liking?” Walda Bolton asked. She pressed her worried hands together, startling Sansa out of her memories and into the present, where her mother’s slayers sat at her table, using her favorite silverware. Walda Bolton, née Frey. “I picked it myself, I thought…”

If Sansa tugged at the corners of her lips, she could as well look like she was smiling. She brought the napkin to her lips and wiped away imaginary crumbs. There was steak and kidney pie and Sansa had mint tea for a drink, but Ramsay feasted on something ordinary on his own. There was game, which he boasted about killing himself, and it seemed to displease his father as his personal servant continued to pour him more gravy on his platter and wine in his cup. Ramsay’s cheeks were of a blotchy red, and the anger at his stepmother’s small talk came off of him like the steam rising from their plates. The more he drank, the redder he grew. He used his hands to pick at the meat in front of him, wiping the grease against his pants before picking up more wine.

Ramsay was a bastard and it showed. It was Roose Bolton who had her push her auburn hair behind her ears and try not hiding behind it. He was unfathomable, and she guessed him to try and read her response, cold and unapproving, knife in hand while his lunch remained as untouched as hers. It glinted under the candlelight, but Sansa could rest assured it wasn’t as sharp as the one that had killed her mother and brother.

“Pardon me.” She smiled at Walda, who brought her hand to her chest and exhaled in relief, much to Sansa’s annoyance. “It smells delicious. I just haven’t been feeling hungry of lately.”

“Oh.” She giggled. “Perhaps something lighter…? I’m just so worried about the baby, the Maester recommended something hearty–”

“Yeah, yeah.” Ramsay slammed his hand on the table and Walda palled. “We all know it isn’t really about it. I mean, are you even sure there’s a baby in there?”

“Ramsay,” his father warned him. Ramsay shrugged.

“I’m just saying.”

Spit flew from his mouth whenever he talked. He didn’t care to use the silverware in the proper order. The more she looked at him, the more Sansa could find fault at her future husband, and the tightening in her belly made it impossible for her to stomach anything but the tea.

“What are you looking at?” He nodded at her. “Do you have anything to say?”

Cold crept down her spine, but Sansa managed to smile all the same, though it never quite reached her eyes.

“Perhaps–” The smile faltered under his gaze, and Sansa found it easier to steel herself by stealing a glance at Walda, plump and happy and– if not happy, at least content. Sansa sipped the tea and tried again. “Perhaps Lady Bolton is correct and I should have something hearty, as well. I–” Her hands were trembling, so she hid them under the table. “I am to be married soon, after all. I will need the strength to bear my husband’s children. Right, my lord?”

Somewhere within herself Sansa found the strength to reach for Ramsay’s greasy fingers and tighten them between her own. They were thick and barely fit her hand at all, rough unlike any nobleman’s, and the fat from the boar he’d hunted earlier with his hounds squashed between his palm and hers. It dripped down her fingers until they were so slippery she could not hold Ramsay’s hand anymore.

He stared right through her, eyes at his father, before snorting and glancing down her bodice. If she felt small within Winterfell’s enormous halls once, now she was tiny and insignificant.

“Yeah, you don’t exactly have childbearing hips, do you?”

Sansa’s lips were drawn into a thin line.

“I want to be a good mother, just like you will be for sure” she said to Walda, who’d brightened and blushed under the attention.

“Better be a good wife,” Ramsay added, mouthing into his own cup because no one at the table had to be paying him attention. He pestered his servant for more to drink, tossing him the cup and hitting him square in the shoulder with it, groaning at the reprieve it earned from Roose Bolton.

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed inwards. I will do my duty, she thought.

“I think I’ll want the pie now.”

“She’ll have the game,” Ramsay said, close enough that she could smell his foul breath. He pushed his chair away from the table and gestured to his servant. “Hey, Reek! Serve my lady bride.”

Hunching over and still reeling from the previous assault, Reek walked in limping under the weight of the tray. Hair fell over his face and he was scolded for it, as well, once his master saw it brushing against the meat he attempted to carve with unsteady hands. There was an agonizing moment of silence where the servant made a terrible job of it, and Sansa could not ignore the fact that he was missing fingers, which made the work more strenuous than it should be. The meat was undercooked and would not give in to the carving knife, though he pushed with all the strength of his frail body, until something had to give and, with a plop, a single rib was tossed onto her plate. It was mostly bone than meat, but the servant made to try another cut and Sansa had to stop him with her hand.

“It’s okay.”

She spooked the poor thing into nearly dropping the knife. When she looked up, he was still staring at her.

He still had the same eyes.

“Something wrong?” Ramsay barked, and Theon scrambled off to his side. Sansa heard when Ramsay cursed at him, urging him to the corner of the room, but she could not bring herself to ignore the servant. Reek, Ramsay had called him. And he reeked, like something left over to sleep where the dogs did. Sansa had been too scared by the voices in the dark, the day she’d been left for the dogs. And the thing who sounded like Theon was barely any man at all. She had run to the door and banged her fists against it until they were raw, like her voice, and Ramsay and finally came back for her pleads, kissing her brow and swearing there was no reason to be afraid of the hounds.

He laid back on his chair, now, sitting like a peasant and not like a prince, judging her reaction from the corner of his eye. Too busy dragging Reek by the wrist, a lean thing, bent out of shape and growing painfully blue under his vice-like grip. Reek might have stood taller than his master by the table, but he still looked so…

All of her family’s murderers were by the table, Sansa realized. She was going to be married, and there was the man who killed his mother and brother. There was the man who killed her two little brothers. Her future husband didn’t have her family’s blood on his hand, and wasn’t that funny? She’d rather marry the Theon-shaped figure who was twisted out of form than Ramsay.

“Can you please pass me the gravy?” Sansa begged, staring into her plate. Why, she wanted to scream, and what are you doing here? Of everyone she’d ever known. And it was Theon. Though… If she’d seen anyone else like that…

She could see him, still, from the reflection in the silver of her cup. A hunchback and a cripple, and was this what happened to killers? Would this befall Roose one day? To become all bones and– A ghost. She’d thought he’d been a ghost in the kennel, wry and translucid like nothing alive was.

Ramsay poured her the sauce. There was little to eat yet she took her time, having to pick at the bone just like Ramsay, forgetting her manners to pry bite-sized strips of flesh she could munch on. Sansa ate, and wondered if she’d join her mother and her brothers, though she was Lady of Winterfell now, the title a burden too heavy for her to carry alone. Now she knew she wasn’t seeing things, Theon’s presence left her the loneliest, and once she looked up, she could see the empty chairs where her siblings once sat, knowing this was not a time she was ever going to get back to.

***

Ramsay had taken to feed her game, and Sansa had taken to hide the bones in the folds of her dresses.

What would her Old Nan have to say about it? She was getting skilled at this game. Sansa had nimble fingers for the needlework and watchful eyes, and the Boltons were as good to each other as they were to strangers, making it easy for her to slip one bone out of her plate unnoticed as they were arguing. For every word Walda said about her child, Ramsay found fault, and Sansa wished she’d just shut up and be quiet. Her eyes became watery instead, and Lord Bolton would scorn Ramsay, which only made him more cruel in turn. Whenever his father got angry, he’d smell of mulled wine and copper, inching too close to her to her liking and allowing his hands to roam more than appropriate.

He nearly found the damn bones, too.

Sansa had folded them into one of her least favorite kerchiefs, tying it with a bow and placing them under her coat. Sneaking outside was perilous but so was Winterfell now. It wasn’t home anymore.

The hounds must’ve been so hungry they’d smelled the bones from afar, growling and barking before she’d crossed the door.

“Please.” Sansa closed the door behind her, heart thumping against her chest so wildly she could hear it over the noise. “He can’t know I’m here.”

The dogs, of course, didn’t care. Sansa unwrapped her shawl and took off the bundle from under her coat, begging her hands to hold steady as she took the bones. There was little meat dangling from it, but there was marrow to be found in the center, where she could not reach but the hounds would.

Sansa tiptoed to the wall, as far away from them as she could, before tossing the bones inside. One for each, she’d decided, and even then, once the bones hit the dirt on the ground they lain in for sleep, they were at each other’s throats, fighting for the scraps.

“Don’t–”

But blood had been drawn, and the smaller dogs (none of them were actually that small) and the weakest ones (none of them were weak, all of their built solid and packing muscle) had been shunned to the side, made to lick their wounds and not the flesh from the bones. They’d been disintegrated. While they hadn’t been soft nor well cooked, the dogs crushed them to powder dust, licking every speckle and growling for more.

Sniffling and limping, a couple of dogs made it to the side, where they’d curled around the rags that hadn’t even dared to get up and fight, and which now she recognized to be Theon Greyjoy.

The hounds were still growling, still hungry, and she had nothing else to give.

“Why are you here?” Sansa found herself asking, even when she didn’t know what she was doing herself. Theon groaned, but didn’t reply. He rose his head and she could see his gaunt cheeks, and the scars over his skin. Her head was light and she didn’t know if her feet would bring her closer or push her away. Despite the dirt to him, the two dogs had snuggled to his side and showed her their teeth, when they thought her to be bothering Theon.

“Please.”

“What did he do to you?”

“You’ll only get us in trouble.”

“Why did you kill them?” She demanded, at last, and Theon whined just like the injured beasts. “Why?”

“I didn’t.”

Her legs didn’t take her away. They gave in instead, and Sansa fell to the ground, clutching her chest and finding no words.

“You have to believe me.” When Theon spoke, he didn’t sound like himself. A lifetime ago, it seemed, he was haughty and self assured, and Sansa thought maybe one day they’d marry. His mouth was devoid of teeth now. And he didn’t smile. “Please. I didn’t kill them. They ran.”

“Bran and Rickon– They are safe?”

“They ran,” he repeated, rocking back and forth, staring at the wall behind her. “Please. B-be a good wife. Please.”

“Theon!”

“I’m Reek!” He startled the dogs, which snapped and had him cowering against the floor. “It rhymes with weak.”

Finding purchase against the ground, Sansa got to her knees. She minded not if her dress was ruined, and if Ramsay would hit her for it. She crawled closer to the bars, ignoring the growling of the hounds, hands soiled and hair unmade. Bran and Rickon were alive.

“You should listen to him, you know.”

When Sansa whipped her head to the side, she saw Myranda.

It was a good thing, in the end, since approaching Theon had meant approaching the dogs, and the second she got too close her nose would’ve been bitten off. Sansa fell back to her ass and had to drag herself up, embarrassingly, while Myranda watched leaning from the door.

She was a mousy girl, dressed in browns and too little clothing for the weather, but there was something attractive about her. Her haughtiness, or whatever passed for it. She played Ramsay like a fiddle. A smart girl, or at least, smarter than her.

“What are you doing here?” Sansa asked.

“I’m the kennels’ master’s daughter.” Myranda shrugged. “I’ve heard the dogs barking. And look at what I find here, Ramsay’s little bride…”

Mud clung to her dress. Standing between Myranda and Theon, she felt like the farce there, not Sansa anymore, but the woman Littlefinger had willed her to be. Her hair, under the darkness of the kennels, was stark black. There was a story Old Nan told her, about a princess dressed like a handmaiden and a handmaiden who’d stolen her princess’ identity. Myranda was far from either, but close to Ramsay, she was more than anything Sansa could hope to be.

Fixing her hair gave Sansa a semblance of comfort, and she brushed the bangs back, straightened the neck. When she walked past Myranda, for she owed her no explanation or attention, lithe fingers wrapped around her arm and yanked her back.

“You’re nothing,” Myranda whispered. Her free hand caressed Sansa’s pale throat, until it reached her breast. There was pity in her stare, but Sansa had seen the same pitying look at Littlefinger’s face before he pushed Lysa down the Moon Door. “Not even a toy. He’ll break you and toss you away.”

There was no reason to follow her gaze. Myranda stared at Theon, who curled over himself as if he’d been burning.

“You are nothing.”

“I’ll be the mother of his children.”

Myranda’s eyes widened, and she tossed her hair back in laughter. Her hair followed suite, a cascade of brown falling down her shoulders. With the light coming from behind, they looked nearly red.

“Aye!” She was really like Ramsay. “Aye, you will, and there won’t be any use for you anymore.”

“You are really like him, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” she barked. “And we’ll be together.”

“If only he weren’t a lord…”

She’d be free, or at least free from him. Even Littlefinger’s golden cage was better than this agony, yet it’d meant she’d never know about her brothers. Did it matter? But it gave her strength to move on, strength like Bran and Rickon’s, who were so young and had lost more than her. Sansa tightened her little fists.

“It’s sad, that you cannot marry.”

“He wants me.”

“You are below his station.”

“He needs me.”

“I wonder,” Sansa said, and it hurt her to hear Myranda’s words mimicking her own, “how many girls he was in need of before you. Sara, and Kyra, and Willow–”

What a poor life a kennels’ master’s daughter must’ve had lead. Sansa took Myranda’s hands between her own and her pity was genuine.

Pitying had not made her stupid. She’d been capable of watching Littlefinger push Lysa down the Moon Door, and not move a little finger about it.

“I’m a Stark in Winterfell. I know who I am.”

***

There were tears streaming down her face but, for what felt like the first time ever, Sansa felt nothing.

She was afraid that, when push came to shove, there would be no more for her to cry about. She’d sniffled into her pillow every night since moving into Winterfell, scared of Ramsay, of the hounds, of Myranda and of every little shadow hiding in the corners where her family once stood. Then she’d learnt about Bran and Rickon, and she’d cried even more, praying the Seven for safety and good luck. But there was no getting used to this, just because she had to suffer through Ramsay every day, and the second he’d pushed through the threshold of her room, Sansa’s eyes watered.

A woman’s weapon, Queen Cersei had once told her, and Sansa had been young to understand. How strong could she be being so weak?

Even Theon. Gods. The thing down the kennels had been proud one day. Theon had been strong. He could shoot as well as anyone in Winterfell and ride with the wind, he’d laughed and smiled and sparred with her brothers, and now there was only a shell of him left, just like everything left of Robb was his body, paraded like a fool. Her father’s head had since long rotten and her mother’s corpse was down the river stream.

And she was just a girl. She had no blade to defend herself. And even if she had, what use would it be, against someone like Ramsay?

It had taken her so long to understand Queen Cersei and Littlefinger’s lessons. So she willed her tears to fall and they did.

“You can’t listen to her,” she pleaded. Ramsay had barged into her room at night. He wasn’t angry, not like she’d seen him angry before, when confronting his father. It was a game to him and she’d lost, and now she was cornered against her bedspread in her nightgown, soft and trembling and just where he wanted her. So she cried.

“Now, now,” he chided her, eyes glinting under the moonlight. Where her tears spilled, the fabric of her blouse grew transparent, and his stare burned her. Ramsay had dragged her out of the bed and into the ground, where her naked feet were vulnerable against the cold stone and she had no covers to hide under. “I’ve heard you’ve been a very bad girl.”

The cold bit into her skin, turning the rosy flesh white and her veins of a dark blue, paling even more once she dug her fingers into his clothing. Against the fur covering Ramsay, she looked a porcelain doll, fragile as she might as well break, the moment he took her in his arms. Ramsay held her by the wrists and yet she didn’t.

“I wasn’t bad,” she lamented.

“Myranda has told me you’ve gone to the kennels.”

“It’s true.” Always best to lace your lies with truth, best for them not to be found out. Sansa nodded eagerly for absolution.

“I thought you knew better than to leave your room.”

“The hounds,” she said. “You told me you would gift me one of them.”

That seemed to give him pause to think.

“I did say it.”

A woman’s tears, she’d been taught. Ramsay was mollified, not because he had not wanted to see her cry, but because punishing his bride had his blood boiling. He’d found reason to, and all she had to do was to take it away.

Oh, he must’ve reveled on his Stark bride, the daughter of the enemies his father had slain, but he’d taken the conquest for himself.

“I was just– Choosing, my lord. T-They are all so big and fearful and strong for a girl like me. You took good care of them.”

Ramsay wanted to be feared, and she feared him. And in this she’d found herself to give in to what he wanted, for every man, from the King upon his throne to the lowest of peasants, had need of being admired, and having his ego fed. Sansa had been so stupid once she’d confused it with love. Now she knew.

“Well,” a frown crossed his brow. “I did, they’re very special. You should be honored–”

“I am!” She cut him, which had been a mistake, but a mistake with a way out. He’d brought her closer to his body, and she’d rather run outside naked in the snow than bask in his warmth, but that’s what she did. “I am, I am so pleased, though I’d rather have– I am only deserving of something small, unthreatening. Something to keep me comfort and be petted and fed.”

“Pampering,” Ramsay told Sansa, and she was under the assumption he was talking about her, “Only spoils them further. You have to keep them on a tight leash, my lady, least they run off on you.”

It was no coincidence his hand stopped by her throat.

Her heart fluttered, a trapped bird in the cage of her chest. The cold had seeped under her clothes and brought her breasts to stiff peaks, which she pressed against Ramsay, looking up to find his eyelids hooded and mouth watering. The image terrified her, but he’d let go of her wrists.

“This doesn’t stop the problem, you know.” He said, after what felt like an entire season had gone by.

“W-what?”

“Myranda has also told me you’ve been feeding them. She found your pocket kerchief with grease on it, down the kennels.”

Sansa closed her eyes and sighed, finding the shiver that overcame her body wasn’t feigned, and even pressed up against pelts and Ramsay she was cold to her bones.

“She would.”

“You confess to it, then?”

“She’s… baseborn. Not like you and me,” Sansa added in a rush, and she was graced by Ramsay’s hideous smile. “Her noble lord finds himself a lady wife. Were I in her place, I– I’d be coming up with stories, too.”

“You’ve got no need to come up with stories, then.”

“No need.” She shook her head.

His hand found her rump and squeezed it, before allowing Sansa to finally slip away, falling to her bed in a disarray of clothing and hair. She thought she would die from the terror and the shock, but surprise had found her faster, and Sansa had fallen to bed with Ramsay in the same room with her, but she was alive. Alive, and unhurt, as Ramsay left her to her own doings for it was not their wedding night. Not for very long, she thought, but Ramsay was only a man, wearing a beast’s skin, and not otherwise. She had, all along, feared he was something she could not reason with, who’d pull the marrow off her bones just like his hounds would, just for the pleasure of watching her fall apart. And he was. He could be. But like Joffrey, like Tyrion and Littlefinger, he was only a man down below, where it counted, and for men you could tie them down with invisible strings, and made them to dance to your will.

Just find out what they want, Littlefinger taught her. This was the easy part. Dangling what they wanted in front of them and being willing to give it to him, however, was a different matter altogether.

She wasn’t fooled anymore. Ramsay would take what she wouldn’t give for it was in men’s nature, not beast’s. She could dream all she wanted of Winterfell, but it’d not erase the pains of her choice.

And she’d not be broken like Theon was.

***

A man’s simple nature often hid deeper desires.

It didn’t mean there was something intelligent about them. Much like animals, men were often guided by the same instincts. Eat. Kill. Mate. Still, through the impulse was the same, true power laid in figuring out why. She could be sweet and pliant and soft, and yet that was all she could afford to be if she didn’t figure out why she was wanted sweet, and pliant, and soft. It could be as easy as a man wanting to assert his power. It could be as difficult as a troubled past.

Ramsay Snow was a bastard and a fool, and Sansa would’ve found a real tragedy of his story if he’d turned out to be like Jon. Jon had been young, but he’d been brave, and Sansa missed him so much her heart squeezed with ache. Ned had raised him true. Sansa remembered wishing him gone not to pain her mother so, but out in the world, no one would’ve taught him duty and honor.

It all came down, as it often did, to Ramsay’s father.

Now, she’d learnt bits of history, despite her tendency to sleep through class, and if memory failed her not, Roose Bolton was wedded to his third wife, with no trueborn son alive but for the one in Walda’s belly. The word “breeding” had her itching all over, repulse at being regarded as a horse, but as long as the growing bump in Lady Bolton’s womb was female, Sansa was a prized mare, not to be hit and harmed.

If Walda bore a male son, Sansa’s place at the Bolton household would become direr, but not unsalvageable.

It took her a great deal of nights to afford the calculation as to figure out her position there, nights she could not afford for the wedding was drawing closer at each one, but every day her gaze crossed Theon’s, she became stronger. Not only for Bran and Rickon’s memory. But because she did not want to become like him, who’d whimper every time he drew Ramsay’s attention, who’d get hit at the smallest mistakes. Who would, Sansa knew, because she’d observed enough, make mistakes on purpose, so he could get hit, to satisfy his master ire and earn himself a night’s rest or a scrap of bone.

The Boltons could’ve conquered through force, but there was no long lost love between them and the North. Fear was a powerful thing. They’d seen the flayed man’s banners and they’d been urged to the Bolton’s side, but Ramsay could’ve been married off to anyone, except it was her the chosen one, to be shipped off to Winterfell from the Vale, because the North feared, but _they still loved_.

They’d rail behind the Direwolf’s banner once again, for her, so best not to anger the Northmen who’d kill them all for their rightful Queen. And best to keep her pacified, with a babe on her arm and little time for ill will.

It didn’t mean Ramsay agreed with his father’s plan, but it also meant he was an idiot. Hard to control, but easy to manipulate; the Bolton family fought amongst themselves. They needed no one else to wage war against them. One of the sides would give in, eventually, and Sansa prayed, for the first time, Ramsay would be victorious. For Ramsay she could deal with, the same way one dealt with a rabid dog. She might’ve started the game the moment she was brought to King’s Landing, but Roose, Roose had been a master at it. He’d killed her mother and brother, and for it, Sansa would not mind watching him burn.

***

“He bathes you?”

Vapor clouded the bathing room, but Sansa could still glance at the figure amongst the steam, though she had to force her eyes to do so. Theon was curled over himself, as he often carried himself now, and she could only see it was him due to his curly hair. It’d been glossy, once. Now it peeked from the water broken and nearly white – a description that much fit Theon, in general.

When he heard her voice, Theon jumped and whipped his head back, splashing water all around, still managing not to move an inch despite the fuss.

“I don’t understand it. He keeps you to the kennels and call you by any other name.” He was shaking. The air current stopped once Sansa closed the door behind her, trapping them both in the warmth of the room, but Theon could not stop shaking. His shoulders had been tense despite the hot water. Even when he thought she wasn’t looking. “But you’re still his servant. And here you are, covered in warm water.”

“This is a test,” Theon said, to which Sansa replied, “Maybe.”

Sansa toed away her shoes and drew closer.

“What did he do to you, Theon?”

“My name’s Reek,” he whispered. It only served to make Sansa grow, but worse than becoming someone like Theon was now, it’d be to become akin to Ramsay. She steeled herself again the fury building up in her chest, all the questions that would sure pour from her mouth should she open it unprepared. There was a storm brewing in her since she’d seen her father’s head in a pike outside King’s Landing, and it wouldn’t be fair, nor would it settle, if she’d take it out on Theon.

This is what Ramsay does, she realized. He’s angry, all of the time. Yet there’s nothing he can do to his father. That’s why he takes it out on us. Because he’s weak and scared, and the only thing someone weak and scared can do is bully whoever is weaker than him.

She wouldn’t become Reek, but she wouldn’t become a Bolton, either, Sansa promised herself, kneeling close to the bathtub where Theon prayed with closed eyes, and allowing her hand to touch his hair.

“No. You’re Theon Greyjoy. You’ve betrayed my family and taken my house.”

“I’m Reek. It rhymes with meek.”

“You used to ride this gallant horse outside the courtyard. And brag you were a better shot than Robb, though you were obviously much older and it wasn’t a feat at all, beating a fourteen year old boy at anything.”

If Theon was staring at anything, it was a memory, conjured in fog.

“You thought father would have you marry me one day. I’ve heard it, you know. I wasn’t deaf or that stupid.”

“Please,” he begged.

“ _You have to remember your name_.”

She needed him to be Theon Greyjoy. Theon Greyjoy was a liar and a thief, but he was no murderer. He was also funny, and smart, and a dash handsome; he’d grown with her and knew Winterfell as well as she and her brothers did.

She needed him to be Theon Greyjoy. Else she’d be alone.

When Sansa looked at his face, she was met with the same pallor, the same gaunt look her own cheeks had acquired, but somewhere behind the hollowness of his eyes, Sansa saw something.

“You’re Theon. You’re just… playing pretend, for a while.”

“I’m Reek. He has me pretend to be Theon, sometimes.”

“Is that why you’re bathing?”

“No.” Theon flushed, giving Sansa an inkling why.

He was deep in the water, so she could only see above his mouth. The nose, the eyes, the tip of his ears. When she tried to pull him up, Theon resisted, getting water all over her dress, as he pulled and held against the bathtub long after she’d let go of him.

“My wedding night is close. You’ll have to be Theon, then, for the sake of everyone else. But you could be Theon here, when it’s just the two of us.”

He shook his head.

“Well, you know who I am.”

“Lady Sansa.”

“Yes,” she felt a smile coming to her lips. “Sansa Stark.”

“Sansa Stark,” he repeated.

“The dye is nearly all washed out of my hair now. You know, I had to pretend to be someone else for some time, too. Come on.” She rose. “Let me wash the rest.”

There was terror in Theon’s eyes as she slipped out of her coat, but there was wonder, too. It meant he wasn’t all lost and, if there was something of Theon in there, it meant she wasn’t lost, either. It meant whatever Ramsay could do to her would not erase the person she was, just like being Alayne had not meant Sansa was all gone.

Sansa was already sweating by the time she’d taken off her furs. She’d to peel off her dress, the wool clinging to the sheen gloss her skin had acquired after the talk, the wet bottom of her skirt hanging heavy and fated to rot. Sansa thought she’d be shy once she undressed for a man, but Theon looked more embarrassed than her, and Sansa could only suppose she was doing this for herself, after all, and not some other person, which stood as a good reason why, despite her nakedness, she could only feel relief. The dress didn’t weight her down anymore. There was a mirror, propped to the side, and Sansa caught glimpse of the woman she’d turned while she’d not been looking. It didn’t quite bother her as she thought it would, and the unease that came at the reflection was born out of her features, and not self consciousness. Despite the black strands to her hair, she’d never looked quite so much like her mother.

Good, she thought to herself. Let Roose Bolton see this face every day for the rest of his life and remember.

She had to take Theon’s maimed hand to get into the bathtub, scooting his legs to the sides and facing him, though for the life left in his body he’d not look at her. Sansa’s hair pooled around her after she sat down, the remaining dye clinging to the thick ropes of hair before finally giving in, making swirls of black in the water.

Their knees touched despite Theon's attempt at pressing himself against the wooden frame. He slid further down, to better hide, but it only meant their legs bumped.

There were ridges and scars running over his ankles. His toe nudged her thigh, and she realized there was a hole where some fingers ought to be. Once it showed across her face, Theon became agitated, so Sansa touched it, lightly, and caressed the patches of broken skin. The murky water, filled to the brim with soap, didn't let her see down below. Perhaps it was for the best. Once her own feet sought somewhere to squeeze against, she traced the curve between his legs, and he cowered and whimpered and made it to get out of the water.

Getting out would mean she'd see, so he didn't.

"It's alright," Sansa said. "I'm not scared, not of you. Are you afraid of me?"

Theon's frightened eyes were telling enough.

"I'm not gonna hurt you."

"But he will. I shouldn't– we shouldn't–"

“I don’t want to marry him,” she whispered.

“Don’t say that,” Theon pleaded against her body. “It’s dangerous.”

“I know. But just to you. Just this once. I wanted to be true.”

It took Sansa some effort to lean forward, slipping until she could cradle Theon's head between her hands. She closed her eyes and laid with her forehead pressed against his.

"Be strong. If you can't do it for himself, do it for me."

When she opened her eyes back again, they were wet, but theon was staring at her, this time, giving her a curt nod once their gazes crossed.

"I'm going to marry him." She was decided not to let it ruin her before it did. "It's going to be awful but I'm going to marry him. I just... Could I...?"

They were so close she could hear his breathing, the beating of his heart, the blood rushing to his face. When Sansa kissed him, her tongue traced the curve of his lips and dipped inside, and did not slip away once it licked the spaces where Ramsay had crushed his teeth. Theon moaned at it, but she refused to let go. He was her lifeline; she'd drown if they parted. Pressed up against him, Sansa could feel herself drifting to somewhere far away from Winterfell, some different time altogether, where she didn't have to be Sansa, orphan and lady and pawn, but free of obligations, she could finally be herself.

"Touch me," she commanded, breathless when they finally split. The blunt of her nails raked across Theon's arms where Ramsay had beat him, and when she came closer, she saw it was not a beating he took. Ramsay’s hands hadn’t been curled into fists, but to touch him, and claim him, and where his claws had sunk Theon became shy of touching, so Sansa caressed them, pressing kisses along the skin as to make it better. “Please, Theon.”

This was all she was going to know, a fortnight on.

“Can’t I have something sweet, before then?”

“‘mnot sweet,” he mumbled, though his fingers had found purchase at her waist, after some fumbling. “He– He says I reek, I–”

“I don’t want to talk about him.”

“You called me a thief,” he said, devoid of any accusatory tone. She’d climbed to her knees, in an attempt to rise her body out of water, and her hair clung to the skin of her breasts.

“I called Theon Greyjoy a thief. And a deceiver,” she added. With one hand, he swiped the hair away from her body, the other finding Theon’s face and lifting it up. “Well. Are you Theon?”

If his eyes were shining, it happened because there were tears to it. But those were not of sadness, they weren’t the tears Ramsay inflicted him. Sansa smiled, and Theon managed something, in return.

“Yes…” His eyes sought the door, but nobody came. He let out his breath. “I– I suppose I am.”

It was a little crooked, it was a little toothless.

But finally, it was something.

***

The hounds didn’t bark at Sansa anymore. Willow growled, but Willow was mistrustful of strangers, and Sansa hadn’t yet gathered courage to offer her something of hers, in exchange for her affection. Myranda had delivered her kerchief to Ramsay’s hand, battered and soiled, and Sansa was left to make excuses. Pretty lies, that she told teary eyed, praying her future husband would forgive the girl for being so bold. Myranda had no fault for being jealous, seeing they were to wed. Sansa wasn’t so spoiled she wouldn’t be able to understand. She wasn’t.

It was hard to figure out where the act start and the truth remained. She was frightened of Ramsay, of course she was. She could only imagine what would be left of her should he become angry. But the dogs helped. Theon helped. Even Walda helped – she was becoming less and less of a threat, and though Sansa could not forgive her family for their wrongdoings, it wasn’t your fault whoever you were born of, of whoever you were married to. Walda liked pink and lemoncakes, so Sansa could only imagine, if they were allowed to talk more often, what else they could share.

Sansa had knitted herself a pocket inside her jacket, to slip food by unnoticed, and now the girls (Sansa didn’t like calling them bastards) were, if not happy to see her come by, less wary of her presence. If Sansa really paid attention to it, she could see Red Jeyne’s tail fluttering to one side then another. Almost like a little wag.

Of course, now that Ramsay accompanied her, they all acted different. Canines could scent things human didn’t, Robb had told her one, explaining why Grey Wind had been feasting on her secret stash of cookies, hid well under her drawers so her siblings wouldn’t want to share. So they must’ve noticed the way her shoulders straightened, and her steps became heavier.

And they didn’t like Ramsay, not at all. All but Kyra and Red Jayne had stood to attention, baring their teeth to their master.

“They like you,” Ramsay teased, poking Sansa in the ribs and making her stumble forward, having to quickly grasp at the gates and push back, before Willow could bite at her fingers. Nothing could’ve been funnier for him than when Sansa fell to the ground. Her heart rammed against her chest despite all she’d told herself. But none of the girls had attacked, and Ramsay laughed without realizing himself none of the growls were directed at her.

“I– I think they do, my lord.”

Ramsay liked her on the floor, so she stayed there. He made no move for help, except when she looked up, harmlessly, pleading at him with her eyes and lifting him her frail wrist. He pulled her up, complaining, and nearly pushing her against the gates once more, but Sansa understood what his glimpses meant, and though she did not welcome them, they were useful. She could blush at will. It only took remembering Theon, her mind floating to his mouth, pressed gently between her legs, teasing her until she came. It left her out of breath and embarrassed, but Ramsay could imagine himself what her heaving chest meant.

“Well, tonight is your wedding night.”

“I’ve never been happier, my lord.”

Now this was a joke to make them both laugh. Ramsay only grinned, teeth showing voraciously. He obviously didn’t care that she cared to lie.

“You can have your pick, as promised. Since you like them so much. Who knows. Maybe I’ll leave your scraps for them, once I’m finished with you.”

Sansa smiled, terse.

“Go on.” He pushed her forward.

“I…”

“Point it.”

“I can’t–”

“Do it.”

There was no arguing with it. Before Ramsay could take her by the wrist and shove her hand inside the cages, she lift a trembling finger, pointing.

“That… That one.”

“Which? Is it Kyra? Red Jeyne?”

“No,” she spoke softly. “Behind them.”

And then Ramsay saw. Sansa took her hand back, clutching it against her hammering heart.

“Something small and unthreatening,” Sansa repeated, looking at Theon. “Something to keep me company.”

“Something to be petted and fed,” Ramsay spat.

“You promised I could take my pick of the litter.”

“I promised you a dog!”

“I thought– Aren’t it a dog?”

Ramsay grit his teeth.

She might cry later, and she might have the most horrid night of her life, but for that moment, Sansa took her hand to her mouth, and smiled.


End file.
